But I’m tired of lies.
“Yes,” I say. “But not because I’m trapped. And I am trapped,” I add. Precision matters. “In practical ways. Political ways. Biological ways. This house has more locks than doors, and most of them have my name on them now.”
“Yes.”
“But that’s not the only truth.” I place my hand over the twins. “I stay because leaving now would make the life growing here something I flee from instead of something I choose.”
My throat tightens. I force the next words through, anyway.
“I stay because Dante is here, and I will not let him define another room I enter.”
The garden is silent.
“And I stay because Alessandro gave me the file. Not enough—never enough. But enough to make the next choice mine.”
Teresa nods once. “That matters.”
“Yes,” I say. “It does.”
Chapter 33
Alessandro Eliminates Son
POV:Alessandro
Dante breaks the restriction at 9:14 p.m. Not by accident. Accidents have disorder in them. Randomness. Misjudgment without intent. This is not that.
The north corridor alarm does not sound because the alarm was never mechanical. It was men. Men can be distracted. Redirected. Delayed by fabricated instructions carrying my name.
Dante has learned nothing useful in exile. But he has always understood how to make lesser men want to avoid consequences.
Marco calls first. “North corridor.”
I stand from my desk before he finishes speaking. “Where?”
“Gallery turn.”
“Evie?”
“Outside the nursery rooms.”
My hand closes around the phone. Once. Then opens.
“Luca?”
“Moving.”
I’m already at the door. Salvatore rises from the chair opposite my desk. He does not ask what happened. He reads it in the speed of my movement, in the absence of explanation, in the decision already made before I reach the hall.
He follows. Useful man. Old enough to understand that some moments do not require permission.
The house sounds different when there’s a threat. Not louder. Quieter. Staff vanish. Guards adjust without visible running. Doors close. The architecture absorbs panic and returns discipline.
Good. Panic wastes time. Evie’s six and a half months pregnant with my children, and my son is moving toward her. There’s no room for wasted time.
We reach the east stair. Marco meets us at the landing, his expression too controlled. That means anger.
“Giulio’s man gave the lower guard a message,” he says. “Supposedly from you. Reassignment.”
